What Is Broken May Yet Become Whole
by theconsultingtardisbananaangel
Summary: Dean Winchester finds himself pulling a lonely, blue-eyed man from the edge of despair, tackling him before he can jump off a bridge. Cas has innumerable demons, and they resonate closely with Dean's own. But Dean can't shake the feeling that he's being healed as well. Destiel AU. M for language, adult content, and overall darkness. Angst.
1. Breaking The Fall

**Warning: This story may trigger some. It deals with suicidality, self-injury, mentions of child abuse, drug addiction, and a whole lot of other not-nice things. I've been feeling depressed lately and I just can't seem to write anything uplifting at all. Just call me Sad Sadie, Downer Debbie, Buzzkill Brianna. **

**And, it being the season of AP exams, of course my stupid muse had to shoot me with a multi-chapter fic idea. **

**Okay, I'll shut up now...**

* * *

_I'M ON A HIGHWAY TO HEEEELLLLLL!_

_I'M ON A HIGHWAY TO HEEELLLLLLLLLLLL!_

Dean Winchester was singing loudly. He had been driving to pick up some paperwork that officially let him expand his thriving auto-mechanic business. His father's old friend Bobby had decided to retire, and he was giving his own business to Dean. Dean is on top of the world, tonight. Good music, great car, beautiful night, hopeful future, there's someone on the side of that bridge, he was earning enough to support his brother's college career.

There's someone on the side of that bridge.

_Holy fucking shit._

Dean slams onto the brakes in the exact manner he tells his clients not to. Bad for old cars. But the guy's got his arms spread out and his eyes closed, a ruined brake line is the least of his worries. He leaves the door open and runs back to where the man stands, looking like a caped silhouette against the huge moon. The bridge is deserted, and Dean sprints towards him. He can barely comprehend what's going on, but the guy is bending his knees, and he looks ready to jump, to end it. Dean grabs him by the waist and pulls them both backwards, and they fall onto the concrete, knocking the wind out of him.

The man who he's just, uh, saved(?) isn't actually wearing a cape. It's a trench coat. He doesn't struggle against Dean, like he expected that he would, but lies there, heavily, and it's the desolation of this action he's struck by.

Screaming, fighting, violent, sure. Bring it on. But he's just lying there, and that scared the living crap out of Dean.

When he regains his breath, he untangles himself from the jumper but doesn't let go. He can't risk the thought that he might suddenly leap up and throw himself off of the side of the bridge, so he just pulls him upright by his arm.

The man just stares out at the water, longing in his eyes.

"You okay, buddy?" Dean knows the question is useless. The guy's this close to jumping off a bridge, of course he's not fucking okay.

He doesn't expect a response, and he sure as hell doesn't get one. For the first time he realizes that the stranger is crying. Not loudly, not for attention, but quietly because he can't stop. He closes his eyes, shut tight against the world, and Dean's never seen something so heartbreaking in his life.

"Come sit in my car for a bit," he offers, and the man allows himself to be pulled along, like a tired three-year-old disinterested in everything around him. Dean deposits him in the front seat and sits down in the driver's spot. He shuts the door, and the car's still running, and it's oppressively silent. His passenger is shivering and Dean notes that his hands are caked in something dark. Blood? Yep, definitely blood. The inner sleeves of his tan coat are stained with it and Dean's struck by the reality of the situation.

This man wants to die and Dean is the only thing stopping him.

They sit in silence for an eternity before the jumper coughs gently and wipes his eyes on his stained coat sleeve.

"Well," says Dean because he feels the insatiable urge to break the urgent void of quiet. "So, uh..." He trails off because there is really nothing at all to say. Where in the world does he start?

"I'm not going to thank you." Dean jumps as the other man finally speaks. His voice is low gravelly, which startles him for some reason.

"Um. Okay. I mean, I'm sure you have your reasons, for, like, you know-"

"Wanting to die?" The jumper cuts off bluntly.

"Yeah."

"And now you're gonna try and talk me out of it."

"No," Dean responds, surprising himself. "You wanna jump, knock yourself out." He makes a point of unlocking the door. The man just sits there, narrow-eyed, looking at nothing. Dean knows he won't do it with Dean there. These things take time to build up to, time alone, and the moment is broken. Not that it's a bad thing. But this guy's obviously got some major demons on his back, and Dean doesn't know what to do besides keeping his feet on the ground.

"You'd tackle me before I made it across the double yellow line, wouldn't you?"

They've reached a sort of tacit agreement; he's not jumping.

"So, uh, what's your name?" Dean feels it is a reasonable place to start.

"What is yours?"

"You gonna keep answering my questions with more questions?"

"You gonna keep asking questions without offering something of yourself first?"

He has a very valid point.

"Um. I'm Dean. I fix cars."

"I'm suicidal and really mad at you."

"Well, don't sugarcoat it," he snaps, then immediately wants to take it back. The man looks so dejected and lonely that he doesn't know what to do.

"Fuck." After a long silence, Dean swears he's imagining the other man's voice. "Why couldn't you mind your own damn business?"

"Mind my business? I just saved your fuckin' life." Dean didn't mean to sound so angry, he just... Suicidal people set him on edge.

"Who says I wanted saving?"

"I don't know. I just know that I watched my father succumb to addiction and disease and I just can't bear to see anyone hurting so badly that they'd wind up on a bridge in the middle of the night," Dean confesses. He didn't even realize his motives before forcing them onto this poor guy.

His words are met with a stare, a brokenly beautiful blue gaze that expressed millions of things instantly.

"My name is Cas," he states finally.

"Cas. Nice to meet you. Well, actually, I kinda wish we'd never had to meet at all," he rambles. It's the wrong thing to say, again, but Cas just sighs and looks away.

"I can no longer commit suicide because that would make you think that you had failed. I have somehow become your burden."

"Good. Whatever keeps you breathin' for a while. Now, I'm guessin' you need a place to stay?"

* * *

**Please don't hate me too much. I do that enough already XC**

**I'm struggling to recover from addiction, so shades of that battle may emerge. Holy angst, Batman.**


	2. Chocolate Milk And Revelations

**Author's note: More triggers, if you weren't aware from the first chapter. And to counteract all the angst and just messed-up-ness of this one, I am doing a fluffy fics told entirely through written letters. Yes, it's short and my posting is erratic at best, but it's Destiel...?**

**Also, I in no way promote self-harm or suicide. And I don't own anything below. Not Supernatural, Dean, Cas, or the Pittsburgh Steelers. I do have some chocolate milk, so-**

_**Oh my god, lady, shut your face and let 'em read the damn thing already!**_

* * *

The remainder of the return trip was spent in utter silence until Dean stopped at a gas station briefly for a fuel-up. Somehow he knew that Cas would be okay alone for a minute. There was nowhere he could go, anyways. The station was one where you still needed to go inside to pay, and Dean found himself buying a couple of bottles of chocolate milk on impulse before heading to the register. He had never met anyone who didn't like chocolate milk, and, hey, he was moving on up in the world, might as well splurge.

"Here," he said, handing Cas one of the bottles. He took it willingly, and as he reached up Dean saw in grater detail the full extent of the cuts on his right hand. He had a deep gulley running from the base of his palm, traveling down the vein and off underneath what was still obscured by the guy's sleeve. A bunch of cuts intersected the main one, covering the arm with criss-crosses. Dried blood covered his palm and gathered in the cracks of his skin. Dean realized that the main one was still bleeding. He decided not to broach the subject any further right then, unless he started seeming light-headed.

"Thank you," said Cas. "For the cocoa, I mean." Dean didn't feel like pointing out that the term cocoa was used for hot chocolate, not chocolate milk. He realized that calling it cocoa _did_ make sense, though, and as he pulled out of the gas station he wondered why it wasn't. Silly society.

Cas silently drank his chocolate milk and stared out the window. He had a look of quiet wonder on his face, and Dean considered that he might never have had chocolate milk before.

"Do you like it?" Dean asked. Not 'do you like chocolate milk', as if he'd had it before, but 'do you like it', as if it was his first time trying it.

"That stuff was really good." Cas looked at him with a ghost of a smile, and it reached his eyes.

"Never had any? I thought it was kind of a pre-school mainstay," he pointed out. Maybe he could find out more about this man if he asked simple, non-threatening questions about his past.

"I've never been to a pre-school," Cas stated simply, tilting his head.

"Oh. Well, uh, I'm glad you like it," Dean responded. "We had it all the time. My mom would stick it in my Spider-Man lunch box, and it was sort of a ritual. Then, she- she- uh, passed on, and my dad wasn't that considerate any longer. Liked scotch and gin and stuff too much to bother with his kids' lunches. It sort of became a ritual with me and my brother, but he grew out of his memories of Mom after a while. He was real little when she died. Since then it's sort of my thing whenever I'm not feeling so hot," he rambled on. Cas didn't respond, but looked at Dean as he spoke, carefully considering every word he spoke.

"I appreciate you sharing that with me," he said finally, a few miles later, and they fell back into silence. Dean didn't know whether he meant sharing the story behind the chocolate milk, or sharing such a personal ritual with him.

Maybe he had meant both.

* * *

They pulled into his driveway at about two thirty-eight. Cas had bundled up his coat to use as a pillow, the heater on full blast, and fallen asleep against the window, lulled by the gentle purring of the engine, and Dean was reluctant to wake him. He tentatively reached a hand to his shoulder and he snapped awake immediately.

Dean led him inside and was silently thankful he had kept a room for his brother all these years. He dropped the paperwork onto the kitchen table and then went to the bathroom for the first aid kit he kept under the sink, and dampened a couple of paper towels. Cas stood awkwardly in the hallway, as if he didn't know what to do. And why should he have?

"Come here," Dean urged, leading him to the living room. He sat down on the couch and motioned to the spot next to him. "Let me see your wrists," he ordered. "I was an EMT for a while before my car-fixing job, and I can still bandage things up pretty good."

"Why'd you stop?" Cas wondered. He held his hands out with clenched fists, pushing his sleeves back. The cuts Dean had seen in the car were mirrored perfectly on his other wrist. The two lengthwise cuts stretched all the way to his elbows, tracing the vein outwards. Dean had seen some pretty nasty injuries in his time, but he could never get used to the ones people gave themselves.

"Stopped when I was called in to bag up a body, and found my own damn father there in the house. Died of an overdose." Cas looked down.

"I'm sorry," he said, and once again Dean was confused by the multiple meanings that sentence could take.

_Sorry for your loss. _

_Sorry I pulled you into that again._

"It was a long time coming," Dean responded, taking the damp paper towels and cleaning off the dried blood around the cuts on Cas's left hand. "After that, I couldn't stop seeing these people as _people,_ rather than things to fix. Three or four days later I responded to a call where a five-or-six-year-old shot himself in the chest by accident." Dean finished one arm, only the parts directly surrounding the cuts, and moved on to the other. "He died on the way there and I switched to patching up old cars. His mother was devastated. I baby-sit the boy's little sister occasionally, send her presents and cards. She likes monkeys." Dean couldn't stop himself from telling Cas that sort of thing.

"That is nice of you," Cas replied sincerely. Dean finished wiping off his arms.

"These are gonna keep oozing if you don't get stitches. If I take you to General they'll put you in the psych ward. So, what's your call?"

"You've given people stitches before. I'm sure you'll be fine."

"'Kay. This is gonna sting." Dean poured antiseptic on Cas's cuts. Cas didn't even bat an eyelash.

"Is that your brother?" Cas asked, looking at one of the only three photographs Dean had displayed. In it, a twenty-year-old Dean had his arm slung around a taller guy in a football jersey.

"Yeah. That's Sam." Dean took his clenched left arm and braced it between his legs. "He was the only freshman ever to make starting quarterback. I was so damn proud of him. He's playin' for Stanford now, which isn't a great team, but-" Dean began stitching, but again Cas didn't acknowledge the pain. "I heard from his girlfriend that he's gettin' offers from teams like the Steelers."

"Why would a team call themselves something like that? Are they burglars?" Dean chuckled.

"No, they're from Pittsburgh, which was a huge steel town back in the day. It's steel as in metal, not steal as in shoplifting or extortion or something."

They fell into silence. Cas didn't realize that Dean was done with his left arm until Dean had to tell him that he needed to move it.

"Hey, man, uh, I need your other arm."

"Oh. My apologies." It struck Dean as odd that he didn't just say 'sorry, bro'.

"No worries. So, uh, you got any siblings?"

"Twenty-three. Twenty-four if my father's eighth wife has given birth."

"You have_ twenty-three siblings_?" Dean faltered for a moment.

"My father... has lots of children. I have two full siblings."

This guy's story was just getting weirder and weirder.

"Um. Okay. What are their names?"

"Anna and Luke are my full siblings. Also, there are: Gabriel, then Luke, Michael, Raphael, Zachariah, Naomi, Inias, Hester, Uriel, then me, then Anna, Balthazar, Metatron-"

"_Metatron_? The Transformer?"

"I don't know what a transformer is. Um, where did I leave off? Balthazar, Metatron, Ion, Rachel. I have never met the rest."

"You've never met your own siblings?"

"I was cast out of the family when I rebelled. They live in a secure compound and nobody can get in."

Dean didn't know what to say. He'd heard of freaky religious cults before, but never met anyone from them.

"How did you-"

"I would rather not talk about it." Dean finished the last couple of stitches, and the for the first time he looks pained. Dean realized that Cas's family was probably a touchy subject and maybe one of the reasons of his trip to the bridge.

"Right. Well, I gotta bandage these." Dean grabbed a couple of cotton pads and a roll or two of gauze and busied himself with Cas's arms. He covered the cuts with the cotton bandages and wrapped gauze from his hands to his elbows. When he finished, he saw that Cas was once again crying.

But he didn't mention it.

* * *

Once Dean had suicide-proofed the room, going through and removing anything sharp or noose-tying-able, he all but shoved him in.

He was beginning to freak out.

Suicidal man who can't cope with anything. Possibly a legal obligation to notify the authorities. No fucking clue what would happen in the morning. A pressing urge to baby-proof the house or move into a straw hut or something. Hatred for however could do this to someone, but most of all, a suicidal man who couldn't cope. With. Anything.

_What the fuck had he gotten himself into?_


	3. It All Looks Better-Ish In The Morning

**I now have approximately eight in-progress fics. Oh dear god, help me!**

* * *

Cas was already awake when Dean got up in the morning. He looked like crap, even worse than last night, the shadows beneath his eyes deep and swollen. His bandages had blood on them, but none of it was fresh. He sat nervously in the kitchen, poking at a glass of ice water.

"Um, hi," Dean said awkwardly.

"I got a glass of water, I hope you don't mind." Cas looked skittish, like a threatened, cornered cat about to bolt at any sudden movement, fur puffed out.

"Nah, man, that's fine. You like French toast?"

"Is that where you fry bread in pancake batter?" Cas wondered.

"Uh, yeah, that's one way to put it," Dean said, chuckling. "It's wicked good."

"I shall enjoy tasting some," Cas responded, quite formally. Dean wandered around the kitchen, setting out ingredients and mixing bowls. He knew the recipe by heart, as it was his brother's favorite breakfast food. Flour, eggs, cinnamon, baking powder, milk, butter, salt, brown sugar, bread, frying pan. Add some powdered sugar and you were good to go.

Dean hummed to himself as he cooked. Cas watched him absently, following Dean's hands with his eyes. He found the sizzling that the frying pan made every time Dean placed a piece of toast oddly comforting. He pushed away the memories of bulk oatmeal at the compound, made with water and taunting him every day with its bland, bitter taste. He pushed away the thoughts of plain cereal in the years afterwards, on his own, unable to afford anything more luxurious. He pushed away the memories of dizzying hunger, as punishment from his father and out of necessity when the money was tight.

"You okay, man?" Dean waved a hand in front of the blue-eyed man.

"Oh, uh, fine, yes. Just, uh, just remembering... things."

"Things," Dean repeated as he mopped up the last of the batter with a piece of bread and dropped it onto the griddle with a satisfying hiss.

"I should be on my way after breakfast," Cas replied curtly. "Thank you for all that you have done-"

"Whoah, whoah, whoah, man, take it easy there. You're not going anywhere." Dean flipped the slice of French toast.

"I have enjoyed your hospitality, and thank you for all that you have-"

"All I have done, yeah, yeah, I get it. But you don't have a place to go, you don't have a job, and you're ill."

"But I cannot be a burden to you any longer."

"Cas, look, you're _not_ a burden. In fact, I've missed, well, taking care of someone. I know that might be weird, 'cause we're strangers, but I gathered that you don't have a home."

"No, I, uh, my last job had a place for all of the workers to sleep, and it ended."

"Okay. Well. I've got a new roommate, then, I suppose."

Cas wasn't sure whether to back down and be happy (ish) or keep insisting that he had to be on his way.

"Okay," he agreed finally. "For now."

Dean placed the last slice of French toast on the platter with the spatula. He grabbed two plates and a pair of forks and knives.

"Well, gesundheit," he said, pulling the maple syrup out of a cabinet and sitting down to eat.

"Um, I think that is German for 'bless you'," Cas said, smiling.

"Oh, yeah, it is, isn't it." Dean chuckled. Things always looked better in the morning, he thought.

* * *

**If anyone knows how to spell gesundheit correctly, let me know and I'll fix it. I could do a Google search on it, but alas I am too lazy.**

* * *

**EDIT: I had this posted for approximately five minutes when VostroCaro told me that it was spelled as such. I had sounded it out like: gazhunteit.**

**Dear god.**


	4. Papers and Colors

**Hey guys. Sorry that it's been a while; my muse is currently occupied by All The King's Men, my post-Sacrifice fic. But I re-read this fic and I'm excited to get back on board. My birthday is in two days, so as a present, have this chapter.**

* * *

Dean's day was relatively uneventful after he left for work. He stopped to pick up two dozen assorted donuts for the crew at work, fully intending to celebrate the new addition to the company. Someone in the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot complimented his Impala, and he gave the guy his card.

"Hiya, Dean," Ash greeted as he walked into the building.

"Hey, Ash. Listen, I got news. Where is everyone?"

"Well, you didn't hear it from me, but I think Jo and that new guy, Benny, are hittin' it off real good," Ash said, wiggling an eyebrow.

"Well. The deal's done, I have the paperwork..." Dean blanked, realizing that the papers were still at home with Cas.

"Funny, I didn't know you started using a Dunkin' Donuts bag as a briefcase," Ash chortled.

"I left them at home, and I need them postmarked tomorrow." Dean swore. "I can call and see if Cas knows-"

"Who's Cass?" Ash asked. "Have you got a fair maiden in your life? Do tell."

"No- he's not- he's a guy-"

"Didn't know you played for both teams," Ash teased lightly.

"Ash. Do not ruin my good mood. Cas- who happens to be a guy- is a bit, well, homeless right now, and he's staying with me until he gets back on his feet. Speaking of, I should call him and see if he knows where the paperwork is," Dean said, pulling out his cell phone and dialing his home number. He wondered if Cas would pick up, but he answered after three rings.

"Dean. I wasn't going to answer, because it's your house, but I saw 'Dean's Cell' on the caller I. D. and I figured you must want to reach me," Cas said quickly before Dean could even get out a quick 'hello'.

"Um. Yeah. I did."

There was an awkward pause.

"Is everything alright, Dean?"

"Yeah, it's great. Listen, I left some paperwork on the table this morning-"

"The corporate merger papers? I did them," Cas said. "Oh gosh, I am so sorry, I just wanted to do something other than sit here all day, and I was a tax accountant for a while and all of the information was right there-"

"Whoah, whoah, Cas, slow down a moment. You did the paperwork?"

"Um. Yes. I'm really sorry." Dean could almost see Cas's awkward sheepishness.

"Cas, that's really-that's really great," Dean said. He had been told that the paperwork would be really easy, but he had been dreading it nonetheless.

"You just have to sign approximately a dozen times- wait, that's a good thing?"

Dean laughed.

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, I don't know why I would," Cas responded.

"Okay. You remember how you said that you didn't want to be a burden?" An idea had just forced its way into Dean's mind. A pretty great one.

"Yes," Cas answered tentatively.

"Well, now you have a job." Dean paused. "I mean, if you want one. I have to do a lot of paperwork, you know, for the cars and their owners and things and insurance and stuff if you want to- I mean, you don't have to but..." It was Dean's turn to ramble. He was suddenly regretting being so upfront, because things were already weird between them. Ash was staring at him, an eyebrow raised, as he waited for a response.

"Okay," Cas said simply.

"Um. Well. Cool, I guess. Do you think you could find an envelope and send the papers to this address?"

"I assume the envelopes are in your home office?"

"Yes."

"Found them."

"Awesome. The address is..."

* * *

Cas listened to the satisfying clang of the blue metal slamming in on itself as he shut the mailbox. He was still sort of in a daze. Twenty-four hours ago, he was finished, done, about to give up, and now he was standing on the corner of an intersection of two residential streets. The birds were twittering away up in the trees, and flowers bloomed in a wide array of colors. He hadn't realized how nice Dean's neighborhood was last night; he was preoccupied. The hues of the neighborhood hurt his head: the red brick, the yellow stripes on the pavement, the red-white-and-blue flags dripping off of every house, the blue mailbox, the green trees and red tulips and yellow roses and blue sky and it was all too much. Cas swayed, steadying himself with his bandaged hands upon the mailbox.

_Calm yourself._

He focused on the letters that adorned the deposit box, the hours of pick-up scheduled and the United States Postal Service insignia, its motto about postmen not being delayed by rain or snow or night.

The birds kept singing mercilessly, mockingly, reminding Cas that their little suburban utopia was the perfect place to live and everything was going just swell and Cas's life sucked.

Cas took a deep breath, his head swimming, and let go of the mailbox. He walked back to Dean's lovely little house and sat down on the porch, gazing out across the street as a young mother walked her baby in a stroller and a little dog tagged along, panting and trotting happily. A few minutes later, a school bus went by, full of elementary school students on their way to a field trip.

He pondered these children, and thought about his own siblings. Not the older ones, per se, but the little ones that he hadn't met. Presumably, one or two had to be the same age as the children on the bus. He reached a hand around to clutch his shoulder, feeling the knotted scar tissue beneath his shirt.

All those children laughing, having fun. Everyone he knew on the compound was covered in scars by the time they were eight or nine, beaten with whips for the slightest infraction. Cas remembered coughing during Holy Communion, and receiving a hundred lashes for interrupting the ceremony.

He ached for himself, for his lost childhood, for all the siblings he couldn't save from a life of pain and struggles, for all the children in the world who didn't get to board a school bus every morning and play around with their friends, laughing and smiling and passing notes.

Cas scratched at the scar tissue and went inside as the bus turned a corner, the laughter and voices fading. The lights in the house were off, and the emptiness was dismal.

Much more Cas's speed.


End file.
